


Novio

by Bidawee



Series: you be the king and i'll be your queen (alternate and captain canon divergence) [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Communication Failure, Consensual Underage Sex, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Hand Jobs, Homophobia, London Knights Auston, M/M, One Night Stands, Oral Sex, Spanking, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 09:48:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15410247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bidawee/pseuds/Bidawee
Summary: Chemistry, chemistry, chemistry. Mitch loathed the word chemistry. They could skate laps looking as synchronized as a figure skater pair, sure, but Auston and him simply weren’t compatible as people.





	Novio

**Author's Note:**

> [This is a work of fiction and does not accurately depict the people listed inside. Please do not share this on social media nor harass people about it, whether they are in the story or not. Please know that I do not condone manipulative and/or abusive relationships and am only using this as a character study. This is set in an alternate universe separate from reality. Thanks.]
> 
> please heed the warnings; i left a detailed description of them in the end notes!! i don't want anyone getting hurt because of me.  
> dedicated to jiggy, ells, finny, and honey; all my darlings who made it possible to write this in two days. thanks for never giving up on me even though im a weirdo

His mother told him that when he was two, his first words besides “mama” and “daddy” were “go leafs go,” a mantra started by his older brother as a distraction to swipe the cookie Mitch hadn’t eaten from his dessert plate. Even to the ends of adulthood, he wasn’t sure if that was true or just something she said to make him smile, but it had a serious impact on his future. Almost like a self-fulfilling prophecy, his fate was sewn and pinned to his chest like a button, not to be tested. He would see his first game at age three, and want, more than anything, to skate.

Ever since that day, he was a lot like the other kids he grew up with, trying to stay awake past his bedtime so that he could catch the third period and not have to listen to his dad’s horrible recaps to suffice for the missed plays he could only imagine through the thin walls of his bedroom. So all in all, it was no wonder he would grow up to be a hockey player.

 

It wasn’t like skipping along the yellow brick road; it took a lot of work. His father had nailed him down with enough self-deprecation and determination to last him a lifetime, and to throw it all away like Chris did was not an option. He was going to make it. He was going to be like every other hockey superstar. He promised it to his older brother, his friends, and even his first-grade teacher when he had to explain that he’d not studied for the spelling test because he had practice.

Years down the like, still a work in progress, his father made him commit to playing with the Knights, standing over him as he signed off on some of the paperwork and held the jersey he’d be wearing for the next undetermined amount of time with a giant smile plastered ear to ear. It meant moving away from Thornhill, donning the new white Knights’ jersey and playing forward in a brand new league without his parents banging from the other side of the glass. A ripe land of opportunity just waiting to be plucked.

It took a lot of compromises, a lot of sniffling into one end of the phone, and a lot of new commitments to not give up and throw his hat in when the going got tough. The first year was a long one. He couldn’t be more relieved for the summer, when he could hang his skates off and stuff his face without having to keep looking over his shoulder.

 

In the offseason, London drafted a kid named Auston to level out the playing field after the ridiculous steal for Erie with McDavid and Strome back-to-back. With how much people gossiped and blabbered and texted, Auston had to be the second coming of Christ. Hot shit, really, and that was to be taken almost literally because of his background, which was made profoundly known during his first introduction to the team at a formal dinner.

They’d seen some pretty obscure players, even had people from Finland and Russia come to play, but Arizona was a first. “Who’d have thought a barren desert could produce a player with such stellar hand-eye coordination” was tossed around on the daily. Auston, spelled with an o, was certainly innovative and obscure, unable to fit the mould. The farthest thing from the Good Canadian Boy.

Everyone loved to coo over the story of a mother nice enough to move to a completely new country with her son for a new start. Mitch couldn’t fault them, as meeting Ema only to have an invite for dinner shoved under his nose confirmed everything he heard. It made him wish his mother was as supportive; he wanted her to praise him, not entertain his father’s menacing bark.

In the meantime, as Auston learned to fit in, he amazed them with stories about jumping cactus and weeks without rain, fascinating the boys who’d grown their whole lives knowing the majesty of snow. He worked hard to make a name for himself and earn himself a large coup of friends to tend to. Alas, for Mitch, all he could really say for Auston was that he originated from Scottsdale, had a big nose, and messed up their living arrangements on the road big time.

Auston was Dvo and Chucky’s pal before his. They weren’t best friends and never would be, judging by how charged all of their interactions were.

But, in truth, that was a bit harsh of a label to slap on him, as the real reason was more complicated than evaluating how much time they spent together. If it hadn’t been for years’ toll on them, they could have very likely have been instant besties. After all, if Mitch looked really deep he could see that Auston had a good sense of humour, was definitely a good dancer, and a sturdy shoulder to lean on because of his cucumber-cool personality, something coach was convinced he’d nurture as he matured.

Mitch simply never paid that much attention to Auston until a third quatre through their sophomore year. Because they were teammates. And this was hockey. You weren’t going to click with everyone and he’d long since accepted the fact.

 

It was easy to say he wasn't gay when he was thirteen. He managed to keep to that theory until he turned fifteen.

Juniors was a time of experimentation, when a rush of hormones combined with puberty’s many affiliations created an outbreak of affairs dappled on every corner of the ice. Mitch was not exempt from them; he was finally growing out of his baby fat, face becoming more sculpted and features defined. Many eyes now tracked his movements, the fluidity of his skates, analyzing him and what he had to offer.

The strenuous drag of busing around the province and staying with billet families took its toll. Mitch let his frustrations bleed out in tenacity and bared teeth on the ice. The switch from normal life to the complete abnormality of hockey left him panting, crying out for affection in his everyday life. Any branch of security he could cling to made the largest difference.

He split from normality, brushed abnormality and tried to comprehend why he could both admire the girls watching practice and the guys on the team when they pulled their shirts over their heads.

Like a sponge, he took every instance of love given and returned it tenfold, bathing in the afterglow of the touches, hugs, and kisses he received. The latter of which wasn’t something he ever expected come out of strictly heterosexual athletes, though the increasing isolation among what were once brothers, companions unsheathed emotional eruptions he could’ve never anticipated.

It was never the open moments, either. Showering or dressing in the team locker room was something he was impartial to. Bunking was much of the same, although there’d be times Mitch would hear a bunkmate beating off and he’d lay back, close his eyes and let it pass. He didn’t know where the self-control came from, but in the precious hours they had to themselves, away from the good graces and holistic chanting of Ontario crowds, Mitch was reserved within himself. All of his energy was wasted sprinting across the ice, flying across chips and scars as if he’d sprouted wings. Away from it, those wings were clipped and he was pulled back to Earth, all of a sudden bound by gravity once more.

 

The mess of Mitch’s sweat and blood spiralled down the drain, stream rising in puffy, white clouds the first time a teammate caressed the backs of his thighs. The rogue, impulsive conversations about the rounded physique and plump breasts of girls died there, under the pitter patter of the shower droplets. There, he didn’t have to lie about being the stereotypical white athlete. His father’s cries and disparaging comments were restrained to the padded cells of the audience stands. Only when the clear barriers of the glass caged him in did he really feel trapped.

Ironic, how he had grown such beautiful, tremendous, buoyant wings and he couldn’t lift himself off of the ground.

In a way, when he kissed a man for the first time, he really was free. It was at some team convention, behind velvet curtains when a separate pair of thick, sensual lips plastered themselves against his. They were remarkably soft and pliable, letting him experiment and whine into them. The first peckings of stubble kissed his chin and he realized then and there that he was addicted.

That kiss validated so much about him that he’d suppressed. It was a taste of an entirely different flavour and once he had it, he couldn’t stop. Whether they be enemies, teammates, even strangers, he delved into a track of shamelessness. Some nights he was nearly chaste, his touches brief and virginal. He could map thighs whiskered with hair and sweep fingers across his sticky abdomen, in his own personal heaven. If the alarms weren’t blaring before, they were deafening then.

 

World Juniors was just another spontaneous opportunity for him to act, his once impenetrable hatred of Erie and the men it bred no longer sealed in an airtight bag. After their first victory, he rolled into bed with Dylan, exceedingly sticky with sweat and clumped teardrops. While Dylan could not be any more different than Mitch, he was still made of thin, wiry muscle and chapped lips and messy boy hair. One week in and he watched as Dylan stroked their shafts together in his rough palm, until he could be sure that Mitch was slick enough to grind against.

Soft, sensual noises slithered out of Mitch’s throat as Dylan made use of his weight and pinned Mitch down with his entire body. Grinding down on Mitch’s thigh, Dylan grinned wickedly and pulled Mitch’s shirt up to stare down at his swollen cock.

Mitch bit down on his knuckles and tossed his head back, unable to watch the slick way Dylan swirled his tongue around the head of his dick. He huffed, chest heaving as his cock bobbed excitedly against Dylan’s cheek. Sheets spilt over his fingers as he grabbed fistfuls, willing his hips to control themselves. There was already sweat beading on Mitch’s skin, nervous as he was, and his muscles were shaking with the effort it took not to just grind against Dylan’s face.

A wet heat engulfed him after a few more timid licks, the lecherous sound that reached his ears sending him into mindless bucks. It surpassed sleazy bathroom handjobs under twilight and a single functioning light bulb. Despite being as inexperienced as he was, Dylan replicated techniques lost on Mitch, swallowing around him and grabbing the base where his lips couldn’t yet reach.

Once or twice, Dylan choked up saliva and had to pull off, taking a few whooping coughs to reorient himself. The tangled brown curls bounced directly in Mitch’s face, and a frenzied urge to latch on and pull had him raking his nails across Dylan’s scalp, pulling little white flakes of dandruff off as the other recuperated.

Sagging, Dylan’s back dipped and he returned to his position, his exhales huffing cold air over the head of Mitch’s dick. The vulnerability of his predicament combined with the change in temperature left him gasping as if submerged in water. With it, Dylan became rougher and more enigmatic with his actions. Dylan pushed himself further down, one of his hands disappearing under his stomach and the telling sounds of friction between two planes of wet skin wretching a delicious little sigh from Mitch.

Ultimately, he finished first, tapping Dylan’s ribs with his pointer finger twice so he could pull off before Mitch striped his face with thick ropes of cum. Tranquillized, Mitch’s movements slowed and although his hand managed to join Dylan’s in the middle of his thighs, his only contribution was little circles he rubbed into the skin of his shoulders.

There was a palpable feeling of invincibility there; he could swipe a hand through his release and examine it under the allure of the hotel’s bedside lamp and not feel prosecuted. He was swimming so profusely he wanted nothing more than to roll off the bed, away from the ringing tinnitus in his ears and swim across the hardwood and carpet until he was sucking down fresh air again, He settled for a kiss of gratitude, one Dylan eagerly returned as he went on to complain about their soiled bed sheets.

Objectively, from the outside looking in, it was clunky, slow, and awkward. They didn’t know where to put their hands, Dylan’s face and throat were soaked with spit and jizz, and the skin of their pelvises were rubbed raw and bruised. Tell that to the dopamine though; they were both in bliss, having finally breached that gap holding them apart.

His thoughts plagued him that night, replaying his timid little moans again like rewinding a VCR. The commentary his brain supplied wasn’t much better, but even when its bitter claws tore through his experiences he still could not let his eyelids tug shut. He stayed up with the acrylic red pixels of the alarm clock, tossing and turning every ten minutes, running on schedule.

It was never the same after that, the fiery coals of loathing suffocated by thick, languid oil. The primer for London and Erie’s games following their firsthand experience was a night spent finding a local for them to share tongues. They had to get creative; the team bus was not a sufficient enough cover. Their little easter egg hunt took them through gas station bathrooms and team equipment rooms until they were sleeping together in the empty supply hall bordering close to where their individual teams were either readying to play or kicking their shoes off and celebrating--or mourning--the outcome of the night.

 

They built up to actual sex with timidity. Wandering touches that strayed from their cocks and brushed lower, immediately having Mitch tense up and pull his legs up to protect himself. Dylan wouldn’t try to coax him, just return his hand back to the base to maintain long, sublime strokes to steady him. Surprisingly, it was Mitch who was battling frustrations and the new, frightening idea of opening himself up and letting Dylan in.

(in preparation, there were many times he’d open up his laptop, webcam taped over as he browsed restricted sites, news articles, and video clips describing exactly what he’d be puttting himself through. Mitch watched with his cheeks sucked in. The task of stuffing a pillow underneath his hips and offering himself up with a bottle of lube abandoned beside his head was only accomplished through Dylan’s lips smacking on the back of his neck.)

They moved onto better things with time, an amicable departure with a shared hug on Memorial Cup ice. The fresh wounds were still oozing blood and to poke at them would only send their friendship spiralling in the opposite, so Mitch backed down and gave him space. It didn’t disturb routine, he’d long since picked up Cliff and taught him the rules of the game to keep himself satisfied.

 

No one else was as finite as Dylan, but that didn’t disqualify them from the running. Sometimes he would top, others he would bottom and clench down, hoping he could ride the team bus the next morning and not suffer the consequences. It was a game of musical chairs, as Chucky called it when he found out. There was an exclusive circle of knowledgeable participants from a large pool of donors, so the absolute last thing he wanted was interference from the outside.

 

He tried to laugh off Cliff’s warnings about Auston; the kid was still maturing but latched onto Mitch like a lovesick puppy off the ice. On the ice, he was an independent motherfucker, and his position as centre meant he and Mitch seldom interacted. Off, he was just a moon-faced kid that coveted him and puckered his lips so much it was like he was begging to be kissed all the time. Also, he was a bit dorky and behind the trends, but that was no crime. Mitch just didn’t know how to be more obvious that he wasn’t interested in entertaining the advances of someone that he didn't hand pick himself.

(Aloud, he'd never say it, but did like the attention though, and that's probably why he led Auston on as long as he did. He was guilty of not shooting him down, excusing his actions by saying it wasn't incentive either; simply abiding in a gray area that'd only served to let unrequited emotions fester.)

It extended beyond tape reviews and movie marathons, spiralling into early morning coffee runs that Auston couldn’t stomach, because he had bags the size of the moon underneath his eyes, but still showed up in attendance despite that. He was particularly invested in discussing with Mitch the proper way to tape a stick, pulling up old Leafs’ players and their namesakes to get on their good side. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, and Mitch was fine with playing along with him until Auston tested the boundaries and put a hand on his arm.

They were in public no less, a big no-no. There’s been no confirmation, and Mitch couldn’t even shrug him off because he had two hands full of piping hot drinks, so all he could do was continue walking to his car with discomfort as Auston started to test the limits of societal convention, not even bearing in mind the odd looks they got. 

Banking in other four hours of sleep seemed like a good idea when he was screaming himself hoarse for Dylan, but now, he was trying to conjure up every way he could let Auston down easily and not break the kid’s heart without letting him know he wasn’t in a committed relationship. It all boiled down to the whole “I’m not ready” and “it’s not you, it’s me” which were both big, fat, distasteful lies. You don’t just casually say to someone that you see them as a little brother kind of character (Auston wasn’t even that, he was just there; a good player, but not a piece to play on Mitch’s chessboard).

“Auston,” he said, finally, at the end of his rope. They’d stopped right in front of his mother’s banged up vehicle she’d leased out for him, the foggy Monday morning climate shrouding them in an enigma.

Stopping beside him like a humble steed, Auston turned to look him in the eye. “Yeah?”

At the start of the confrontation he’d had nothing but good intentions, but being faced with the hopeful look and the unfiltered adoration present in the boy’s eyes made his stomach turn. He didn’t want to hurt him, but he didn’t want Auston getting the idea of trying to further court him under the assumption that sometime in the future Mitch would be willing to let sleeping dogs lie and let him try to coerce his affections back with some grand gesture.

What he blurted out was somehow worse, a cryptic, “look, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea but, I don’t swing that way, man,” that was shakier than a rickety bridge.

The striking inaptness of his word choice slapped him across the face, but it did what he wanted it to and Auston crumpled like a page of an old newspaper. The hand he’d been using to hook Mitch and reel him in was dropped, and he refused to make eye contact as they loaded in the vehicle and sped off to meet the rest of the team before practice.

In a way, it gave him more freedom and allowed him to stamp down on the flickering flames of Auston’s crush before it really grew out of control, but the guilt that ensued after every kiss he shared with another man was what really burned him. He had to take extra precaution to make sure his facade wasn’t blown because one night he was feeling horny and impulsive enough to make out beside the ice machine with an old fling.

Between running team meetings and managing his father’s mood swings, his life was no longer the compact, euphoric paradise it’d once been advertised as. Personal time was few and far between training sessions, and with his cravings established it was like an addict being denied a drug. He got reckless.

 

Quite literally dragging Cliff off one morning, they found refuge in the supply room. Mitch had pressed him up against the wall with his shoulders and ruffled his hair up with two hands. The ceramic interior was artificial and choked the life out of the room, as freaky as an asylum that closed in on them. He grabbed onto the sides of Cliff’s face and drowned out the depressing atmosphere with his lips, feeling his cock stiffen inside his boxers in anticipation.

They were just finding a sense of momentum, Cliff grinding against the meat of his thigh when they were so rudely disrupted by the supply door banging against the wall.

“Oh shit.” And _fuck_ , that was Auston’s pitched tone, he could recognize it anywhere.

“Don’t tell,” he panted out, hiding his face in Cliff’s neck where his long hair twined around the hem of his shirt. It felt like someone was stomping down on his chest, diaphragm fluttering as it searched in desperate need of oxygen.

“O-Okay,” Auston articulated with a brief stutter, lingering for another second as Mitch pressed a reassuring kiss to Cliff’s collarbone. Mitch could feel his eyes on him, tracing the bruises and hickies decorating both their necks and the extent of the exchange.

It must’ve been so tempting for Auston to play God then and there, but, thank goodness, he listened to their demands and backed away with a brief sorry on the tip of his tongue. He returned them to wallowing darkness, much too quiet for his liking because inside of his chest, Mitch’s heart trumpeted, beating so quickly his lungs couldn’t keep up and loud enough to be mistaken for a car engine.

He wasn’t in the mood to play host with Cliff; he’d rather be spending time next to the toilet in case he vomited. Still, the idea of abandoning him with blue balls wasn’t someone he was keen on either, and he overlooked the blood pumping into his dick so that he could give Cliff a quick handjob that surmised the tension they’d been feeding for the past week. He half-heartedly washed himself off and sent Cliff on his way with a small ass-pat.

 

And of course, the next step was damage control.

Because to lie and say he had an epiphany about his sexuality in the midst of a few weeks and then _not_ feel obligated to tell Auston was like building a skyscraper on minimal foundation: it was bound to fall. Luckily for him, the dressing room had, for the most part, been cleared with many members of the team not yet arriving and wisely trying to catch up on their beauty sleep before the big roadie coming up. Mitch, at the very least, had access to the peace and quiet to mull over his thoughts and decide the best course of action.

One such route was to just pretend nothing ever happened and single Auston out, hoping he didn’t play the boy who cried wolf and attach a few believers to his case. Mitch scratched the back of his neck, throwing on his practice jersey backwards the first time and then righting it because he didn’t have the energy to put much thought into his motion processes.

For a while, it seemed like he was in the clear, because Auston was up and ignoring both of them beyond shooting Cliff a few sceptical looks during passing drills which the other man deflected without much difficulty. Lulled into a false sense of security, Mitch continued with his warmups, heart palpitations still burning him, and tried to make the best of the bad situation.

All of which came to a halt when the telltale stick taps behind him signalled someone new was approaching, and someone desperately unwanted.

“Hey,” Auston tapped his shoulder. Mitch looked up, blanking at the acne-spotted face.

“Hi,” he said back, still stretching his legs out, trying to reach a full split. He didn’t want to think about Auston watching him with deliberate captivation, so he looked ahead and watched the other teams warm-ups with woefully shallow curiosity. “What do you want?”

“About you and Cliff--”

“No.”

“--I just wanted to say I got your back. Chucky told me it’s a regular thing, and I get it.”

“Chucky is a liar,” Mitch gritted out, almost falling forward when his skate blade unexpectedly caught on a chip of wayward ice. He didn’t want his teammates talking behind his back, especially when he’d donated much of his trust to Chucky because of the frequent room swaps.

What’s worse, is that the implication became that Auston marched up to Chucky in his off-time, and without hesitation rehearsed his experience of walking in on Mitch’s hand down Cliff’s pants, to which the other only confirmed his suspicions. What a fucking joke.

“ _Hey_. Hey, it’s alright. I get you.” Auston kneeled beside him on the ice, using his glove to cup Mitch’s knee underneath all the protective padding embellished in green and gold colours. “I understand. If you ever want to experiment with someone I would--”

Mitch was compelled to slash his hockey stick against Auston’s skates in frustrations, the compulsion to cry out overpowering. “--No. Auston. No. I mean, thank you for the offer but I’m not looking for partners. Just promise me you won’t tell anyone.”

Auston blinked twice before he continued. “Why would I tell?”

“Just promise!” he hissed, panic-laced throughout his trembling delivery.

“Okay. I promise. Geez.” Auston’s hand ruffled the hair curling around the back of his neck. “You know Mitch, you don’t have to fight this battle alone. There’s people who understand.”

“You can fight it alone, because I’m not gay.”

“You were kissing Cliff. Like, full on kissing. You have bite marks wrapped around your throat--” Auston’s gloves made a choking motion, rubbing the underside of his chin as if to display the brutality of the act. Mitch’s self-confidence plummeted, and he tucked his head down to hide what he regarded as evidence of his crimes beneath his jersey.

Mitch clambered to his skates, pushing Auston away and watching as he windmilled to keep on his feet. “Shut up! It’s none of your business who or where I kiss. Just leave me alone Matthews. I don’t need your semantics.”

After he’d put Auston down like a rabid dog, Mitch turned tail and ran, spitting out an excuse about feeling nauseous to gain some privacy. He felt stuffed, swelled with embarrassment and a lack of rationalization. He should’ve been more cautious with his engagements. This could get out and massacre his reputation; killing his dream of entering the NHL in one fell swoop. And that just wasn’t acceptable.

 

When he returned to the ice he played with a vengeance, going cold turkey with his affections and partners as the draft continually drew close, marked on calendars and phone applications. Auston never stopped trying to be the so-called voice of reason, but his far-from-selfless objective only served to infuriate Mitch. Whenever he talked to Auston, all he could see was the shell of a boy talking him with the hopes of one day taking Cliff’s place, and he couldn’t be more appalled with the notion.

Therefore, he refused to be in the same room as Auston and regurgitated symptoms of queasiness when they were alone to keep them separate. He shucked off any advances and acts of kindness, only returning to Cliff and by extension Dylan over the summer when he’d collected his bearings and adjusted to the fact that he was living a transparent life. Not that his efforts didn’t go down proper or were _intentional_ really, but his casual disregard for Auston extended to the other members of the team too, and the day after they won the Memorial Cup the kid was sent packing to Switzerland, vanishing just as mysteriously as how he’d arrived.

Mitch wasn’t sad to see him go despite the loss in talent--he had his own disastrous future to account for--and once the boy was on another continent he was thoroughly satisfied with spending time in Miami reliving the joys of being a professional hockey player with Connor and Dylan strapped to his side like ammunition.

It was the last time he’d slept with Dylan in recent memory. Connor had been bitching over dinner about them running off but his opinion weighed in at almost nothing, and it didn’t act as deterrence either. They rolled into bed together, sticking the hotel provided neck rolls and bolsters between the headrest and the wall to ensure the neighbours wouldn’t hear it slamming.

What followed was probably the happiest day of his life, accepting the Leafs’ offer and standing up on that podium, wearing the blue and white with pride and reliving the many draft picks he’d watched on his belly in front of their rickety old television for himself. It was a bittersweet sense of euphoria, because he was so close to achieving everything he wanted, only for the dreaded prospect camp to roll around and subsequently, training camp, wherein he was sent down.

Not that he didn’t appreciate the Knights though. They were a second family and were happy to have their captain back. It also gave him the opportunity to go on a serial hookup spree and schedule a reappearance from a banged up Dylan. In Pavlovian fashion, his heart started pumping his faster, eyes unable to deter themselves from looking at Dylan’s lips when the new Coyotes’ prospect showed up on his doorstep for packed gaming sessions, but he forced himself to practice restraint. In the end, they didn’t resume their affair. Mitch had new faces and names to attend to, and besides, they were low-maintenance. Hockey was his priority, and it always would be.

 

Though it stung to admit, he forgot about Auston and moved on to greener pastures, playing another year with the Knights as he developed and making room for the Leafs in his playing styles. He underwent the many analysts’ scrutiny wearing a smile all the while as he tried to pander to the idea of being the perfect Toronto forward they wanted. The future was looking good, sun smiling down on the horizon, and when it was revealed the Leafs would snag the first pick, he couldn’t wait to meet the superstar he’d be playing alongside.

His mother had put out a bowl of extra buttery popcorn and paltry fifty-dollar chips to munch on while they listed off the draft names and the many sponsors attributed to the success down in Boston. The footage from the combine aired religiously on the telltale monitors set up beside white tablecloths, when the representatives from the teams sat ticking off boxes as they worked with what they were given. The sweeps over the candidates proved fruitful pickings, but the radical and abrupt shots of Auston Matthews almost made him want to laugh.

Sure enough, the time in Switzerland had changed him. His tufted black hair was cropped back, neat to his nape and well-groomed by the barber that’d treated him. It juxtaposed the curling locks Mitch had grown used to seeing in the locker room, which had been as luscious and pronounced as a catalogue model’s. Auston had finally grown into his nose and eyebrows, looking less like a mutant fish and moose hybrid and more a human being (and he didn’t want to be mean, but it was like a home makeover, seeing Auston now after years of him being the runt of the litter.)

It was no surprise that the Leafs jumped on the opportunity to snatch up a renaissance player, and although Mitch was pleased to see a friendly face, it was there the first inklings of envy stirred in him. Deep and obsessive, it tore up his throat, watching the fans standing outside the Air Canada Centre chant their God’s new name. Mitch knew he was being uncharacteristically sour, but he’d never shaken than unease from being in the same room as Auston.

Chucky assured him it was because homosexuality was such a taboo, and having someone so organic interact with him only reminded Mitch of his various makeover sessions in hotel rooms and behind billet family doors. It rode on the coattails of the old philosophy that it was easy to become enraged by people with a similar temperament to yours. Mitch didn’t see himself as a clone of Auston--shared sexuality _didn’t_ count Chucky--but he couldn’t deny he’d been giving the guy the cold shoulder after the revelation of him macking on his teammates, which could’ve been a real problem if power dynamic were called into question.

 

He wasn’t formally reintroduced to Auston until development and training camp, where the first pick’s efficiently snagged the attention of the media by shattering a glass pane from Mitch’s one-timer (that was primarily because Mitch wasn’t sure what _could_ be said until he heard the pang and his head shot up to survey the damage). Before that, Auston was happy enough just stalking his movements and using Mitch’s enthusiasm as a scaffolding for his own success: leading up to the shot that had audiences swooning.

Afterwards, Mitch dutifully began to sweep up the shards of glass with his stick when Auston slid up behind him, skates slick and tapping down behind him to signify their master’s arrival.

“Like old times,” Auston commented, donning the jersey and number with pride. Mitch smiled at him, holding his hand out for a weak fistbump before retreating the scene and grabbing a stray puck to back-and-forth with Auston.

Later, they’d engage in a scuffle for the puck during a training exercise and Mitch had been left winded with the raw power Auston domineered, enough to send him sprawling out on his ass more than once. For the most part, they’d been able to laugh it off, but one thing Mitch couldn’t shake was Auston’s backhanded comments, which only served to confuse him more often than not. It was unprofessional and frankly reminiscent of the boy he’d known back in London, especially when it concerned his body and posture.

 

What the reporters couldn’t stop commenting on was the _chemistry_. It was large in part because Auston had the uncanny ability of being able to coordinate his strides to link himself to Mitch, and although his wind-up for slapshots was still bloated and relied more on power than speed, the similarities of their playing styles had Mitch conducting a serious debate about whether or not he should consolidate their friendship to put their past behind him and in the end, become effective linemates. That’s because at the core of the relationship there was something else holding them back, keeping them at square one. And that was Mitch and Auston’s mutual coldness (by extension, Auston’s continual heated looks too, which were just as passionate as they were two years back).

Chemistry, chemistry, chemistry. Mitch loathed the word chemistry. They could skate laps looking as synchronized as a figure skater pair, sure, but Auston and he simply weren’t compatible as people.

Auston was fine when they were speaking face-to-face, but his barebones contempt was very much there when Mitch was chatting up Nylander and reconciling with Connor Brown. He would shove the three aside and shoulder them until they lost their footing, then return to brown-nosing the trainers with relative ease. And despite his limited expression of loyalty, Auston earned the respect of the people around him and two linemates to boot.

There was a bit of smoke and mirrors feigning the locker room, stringing along a sense of cognitive dissonance. Auston would sit back and say he was plain, but he proved the greatest bachelor to grace the city. Not even in the preseason, he was already holding girls’ hearts hostage and flashing them in front of Mitch. He had the air of being modest but in his debut scored four goals and won over any skepticists still floundering in the dark.

No one else experienced the same prejudice as Mitch, which he attributed to how rotten he’d been to Auston in their final months together as they chased after the Memorial Cup. So he didn’t try to make excuses and buckled down with what he was given, shouldering the worst of the passive-aggressive taunts and playing up the facade of greatness Auston loved so much.

 

Mitch drew a line at the rumours.

They were nasty little things that originated at some point post-holiday season, coming to light right at the dinner table where they were spat at his face. Through some mediocre detective work he was able to trace the allegations of homosexuality and promiscuity back to Connor Brown and his inability to keep a secret. At the revelation, he could have scoffed. He should’ve known better from his time in the little leagues; whenever something exploded between the lines the man was like a bloodhound, and he picked at scabs Mitch had tried to conceal behind the stigma of youth.

He didn’t like to think of himself as a slut, but he was branded as such the second his junior exploration got out, chirp material hitting the veterans like a club. The rest of the Leafs pecked at it like starving vultures, checking him into the boards at practice and wolf-whistling whenever he got within ten feet of a guy at a local bar or club. It was exhaustive, trying to tie up loose ends and scrub the manwhore reputation clear, but he had too many active lovers that were mucking around in the minor leagues and playing professional to really make a statement.

He reached his breaking point when Auston got sincerely involved. It could be in a hotel room, at practice in front of coach, or even on a crowded airplane. All he had to do was lean over and ask, in the dead of night at regular volume, if Mitch was going for a midnight rendezvous when they left him unattended, and offering to chain him up if he needed to practice a rare night of chastity with a cheeky wink.

The start of the joke was embarrassing, the end mortifying. Willy, curse his ears, overheard easily and sniggered from the row behind them, the reaction spreading as fast as wildfire eating up dry kindling. He kindly excused himself to the airplane bathroom as they waited to unload and splashed cold water on his face to stave off the groaning, tempted to scratch out his tear ducts so he didn’t show a sign of weakness.

It was all in good fun, he _knew_. If he was in a better position he’d throw his head back, chuck a few skittles and let it slide. But on top of everything else he had to deal with, having the team living in his bedroom made for another crowd of spectators blowing things out of proportion. And to make matters worse, Auston was particularly vicious when he got going.

It went from bad to worse. His playing rapidly deteriorated as did his friendships. Coaching and management were growing tired with his wallowing and jettisoned him down the lines, threatening to send him down to the Marlies if he didn’t improve. On the flip side, Auston was tearing it up, and doing so without lifting a finger. As if reinforced in bubble wrap, he was the equivalent of the youngest child. He could do no wrong.

Consequently, every night, when Mitch was stuffed in the back of a particularly oversized booth nursing a non-alcoholic drink, Auston was enjoying the fruits of his labour and truly living life to the fullest. He did it right under Mitch’s nose too, plunking himself down beside him with an armful of his designated female friend for the night sharing saliva with him. Meanwhile, Mitch was so conflicted with his sexuality and personal life details that he was sitting in catatonic shock waiting for the right opportunity to clock out.

 

It all culminated in a subtle mental breakdown that shook him to his roots. It was supposed to be a normal overnight stay at a registered hotel, one with a nice pool and luxuries they could dabble in to ice the bruises from an embarrassing seven to one loss on Colorado’s home ice. But rather than experience some nice vacation time with everything a man his age could want, he instead spent all night awake and the next morning chomping down on an unexpectedly palatable plate of hash browns and sliced mango as his train of thoughts circled back again and again. That’s precisely when Auston pulled into sight, swiping a yogurt cup and lingering around the milk and creamer.

Mitch was done playing games. He didn’t want to sabotage his career and he knew there were wounds that never healed. Continuing to work as though nothing had culminated between them was just not working, especially when Auston was such a crucial part of the team and his future with them. If it came to the both of them there was no question as to who’d be picked.

For the sake of his status and mental health, he decided to man up and approach Auston head-on, taking his small serving plate with him in case it was a long exchange (and also to the give the appearance of it being more casual than it actually was). When he reached the breakfast bar, he nosed around, pretending to be interested in the bland spread until he was close enough to start a conversation. Auston looked up just as he opened his mouth.

“How’s the fourth line treating you?” Auston said around a mouthful of goopy, vanilla yogurt. Mitch stopped taking a bite of his mango to supplement Auston with a disapproving look.

Mitch blasted air through his nose, turning it down at Auston. “Don’t mock me. You’re the one that hates me.”

“Mitchy, I don’t hate you.” Auston let a thin smile parse his lips. “You’re the one that didn’t want anything to do with me.”

He reared up. “Where did you get that--”

“In Juniors, the whole, let’s-ignore-Auston shtick. It got old, real fast. But that’s okay. I don’t need Marner playing on my wing, and I don’t need him on my team either.” Auston discarded the yogurt container in the garbage bin supplied by the buffet-style layout of food, walking in the direction of the exit to reception.

In a race to appease him, Mitch found himself almost grovelling at Auston's feet. He took Auston by the arm and swung him around closest the fireplace, away from their teammates where they could be eavesdropped on.

“Wait--Auston. That was different. That was back when I was,” he gulped, “denying myself.” Both of Auston’s plucked eyebrows raised, lips sealed shut. Mitch struggled to find the words to suffice as both an apology and an offer for reconciliation without putting himself down and effectively making Auston out to be the victim.

“It wasn’t because I didn’t like you. It’s because you knew this big secret and I didn’t even want to believe it myself.”

“And that’s why you slept with dozens of other men,” Auston said, deadpan.

“They didn’t mean anything. I felt more powerful than I did and lost control and in the process, I hurt you. I’m sorry. I don’t pick up anymore, but if I did, then I would with you.”

“I don’t believe you.” Auston yanked Mitch’s hand away. “You’re just getting creative with your excuses, as usual.” It was a serious attempt at calling his bluff; also an opportunity to dig for an out or a way to reimburse his words.

He went about it in the most glaringly obvious way possible. “Then let me prove it,” he said, trying not to wince at how an unhealthily glint in Auston’s eyes danced around, keen on acting with complete and utter force if given the opportunity.

Truth be told, Auston wasn’t hideous. If Mitch could suck it up, he’d even call him attractive. Broad, strong, with fringes of hair that curtained his face so nicely cropped back. He was a beautiful example of what many would consider the success of the male species, and one that picked up on a consistent basis. Not only that, but a sense of humour had grown with him and he now dominated the room with his presence, both equally good traits to have.

This wasn’t the snot-faced brat following him around, clinging to his legs. This was an equal now, and if Auston had been this two years ago, Mitch’s self-restraint probably would have abandoned him in a flash.

“You’ll need to be more specific,” Auston said, finally. His pitch had drastically lowered, body instinctively moving to hide Mitch from the public eye.

“One night,” Mitch replied. “Just to get it out of our systems. I know you still want me.”

“I don’t take handouts,” Auston scoffed. “I’m not going to throw myself a pity party.”

“Come on Auston, I get lost enough to forget the string of losses and you can get over your thing. Win-win. I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t think the team wouldn't benefit.” He tried his best to sweeten the lip service, hoping Auston would buy into it. If batting his eyelashes and standing pretty wouldn’t do the trick, he was out of ideas. Most men would swoon at the former and fall for him after the later and a couple well-placed touches. He thought Auston would be easy prey.

Although Auston didn’t bow down and roll over the second Mitch gave him what he wanted, he did, however, mellow under his advances enough to seem approachable. He angled himself forward, exhaling hot on Mitch’s earlobe to provoke a tingling sensation springing up on his scalp.

“My place, after Colorado.”

 

They made it about halfway through the condo’s living room before Auston’s blunt force had Mitch stumbling over his long legs and onto Auston’s cocked hip. His hand was trapped between the thick trunks that were Auston’s thighs, forced to grind his hand up against Auston’s clothed dick to free it. Mitch couldn’t work with what he had effectively, but before he could right himself, a hand was pressed up against his ass, spread out to squeeze and pull him up. It required that Mitch put a hand on Auston’s waist to not fall backwards and hit his head on the coffee table.

The hand on his ass lost some of its force and had the other join it, both scrabbling underneath his shirt and stretching the tightness as much as they could, stroking every inch of skin provided. Auston claimed his mouth then and there, slipping him tongue and angling his head to the side to get a better access to Mitch. The hands continued to grip and paw, having difficulty giving him enough space to breathe.

Auston split from him after a good ten seconds of non-stop kissing, lightly tapping Mitch on the cheek to keep him from diving back for more.

“You going to put a show on for me, baby?” Auston leaned back in his chair, patting his knee as Mitch ran the motions of adjusting himself to work out what he should do.

“What?”

“Go on. I want to see you.” Auston twirled his finger, using the other hand to haul the bottom of Mitch’s shirt up to his ribs.

 _Oh_.

His hands clammed up almost instantly. More than ever, he wanted to run.

Auston was playing _that_ kind of game; the cruel one, where he may as well flip the board and declare himself the winner. Mitch wanted to hide his face in his hands, blood rushing to his cheeks as he imagined demeaning himself enough to strip in front of Auston and expect to _enjoy_ it.

Yeah, he could run, but then Auston would label him a coward and more rumours would bloom, harsher than the last. The opportunity to cope with and fix the emotional divide between the two of them was more than appetizing (as was just getting laid and proving to Auston he was a bad lay to boot). It was tantalizing. Sugary-sweet and oh so close. He’d slept with men for worse reasons, sometimes pure impulsive desire, so he’d have to grin and bear it.

“Don’t push it,” he said, his sole warning, only spat out to keep Auston from going on a power surge.

 _It's one night,_ he told himself. _Just one night and hopefully he’ll leave you alone._

Swallowing the thick globs of saliva congealing in his throat, Mitch turned around kicked off his sweater, starting on the buttons peppering his shirt and working his way up. His fingers were trembling so badly it was difficult to force the buttons out from their respective holes, but he outright refused to let Auston assist him.

The long-sleeved shirt bunched around his elbows and requiring he straighten his back to pare the arm cuffs away from his tense wrists. He disposed of the limp, oversized garments to the floor beside him and started on loosening his belt and feeding it back through the buckle. Forcing the wirey end through the loops, it too joined the lump of fabric he’d tossed there, with the additional effect of helping his pants sag.

Unzipping his fly, he shucked off the last button and pushed down his trousers, refusing to look up and entertain Auston’s heated looks. His leg raised itself, foot curled to fit through the skinny, cropped hem of the pants and momentarily setting him off-balance. Finally, he was able to pull his foot through the last hole and leave himself standing bare with only a pair of boxers on to conceal himself.

He paused then and there, reevaluating his decision process as Auston let out a throaty noise of approval. Auston’s eyes were half-lidded, breathing husky and forlorn as his eyes scanned the milky-white skin he was presented with. Mitch could see he was chubbing up, and although the effects of the voyeur were making him run a little hot, he couldn’t equate to the apparent sexiness of the current scenario.

“You look real pretty, Mitchy,” Auston complimented, tugging at his own leather belt. “Come over here, and lose the boxers.”

Shaking, Mitch took two tentative steps forward, fastening both hands to the waistline of his boxers and holding them there. He waited until he was close enough to mount Auston’s lap and only then, shimmied out of them, letting them drop to the floor with all the subtlety of an atom bomb. Auston leered from above.

“Wow,” was all he said.

“What?” Mitch snapped.

“I just thought, from all the sex you were having, you’d be pretty well endowed.” Mitch’s hands flew down to shield himself, but Auston’s own shot out and pulled them forward, pressing Mitch flat to his stomach until there was no separation between them.

The texture of fine clothes against his naked body had static racing up his upper spine, his arm hair standing on end. He tried to fight back, but Auston only transferred both of Mitch’s wrists to one hand and locked his legs around his waist to keep him from escaping.

“Ah ah,” Auston tsked. “I’m messing with you. Just a few stray thoughts. Sit pretty, let me look at you.”

He wasn’t a china doll, not at all, but despite that Auston was wiping the pad of his thumb across the hollow of his cheek, a mockery of powdering blush to bring out his fairness. Auston’s deft fingers moved down the column of his throat, circling Mitch’s hardened nipples and then tracing the definition of his abs all the way to his bellybutton.

Mitch was soft, not turned on at all by the sensual touching, but Auston looked determined to change that, and started his regime of fondling, pampering Mitch and raising his knees up so that Mitch had to slide forward and truly embrace his predicament.

Wordless, Mitch was like a puppet with strings, following along and adjusting himself so that Auston could preen and pluck at him. Auston wasn’t at all mindful of Mitch’s satisfaction when he’d hoisted him up carried him to the bedroom; something he probably thought as romantic but came off to Mitch as humiliating. Auston was still adorned head to toe in the finest casual attire only an entry year contract could buy, while Mitch was trying his best to not freeze to death, clinging as best he could and trying not to get pinned under Auston’s weight when the man laid him down in the master bedroom.

He was immediately met with a flood of kisses, peppering his forehead and chin, moving down to his chest and nibbling at the flaps of skin Auston would pull up. Mitch didn’t reciprocate, just sat back and let him do all the work. He watched, still as a statue, as Auston pulled off his shirt and pressed their bare chests together, building up friction.

“You know,” Auston gritted out, “for someone trying to convince me it wasn’t personal, you’re doing a pretty bad job.”

Mitch turned his head to the side, hoping that brandishing more skin to mark up would distract Auston. He was half-right, and lips created a suction around his clavicle until Mitch tried to kick him away.

“I’m tired. Jetlagged,” Mitch sighed, not having the heart to admit he wasn't willing or going to put in a quarter of his normal effort. Auston pulled himself up, looking down with clear affection clouding his eyes.

“Kiss me,” Auston demanded. “Show me that I’m not just another boy-toy.”

Mitch rolled his eyes, but stood up on his elbows to give Auston a peck on the lips, hardly qualifying as a real kiss. Just as he was pulling away, Auston’s hand tangled in his hair and snatched his head back, forcing their lips painfully together until their teeth clashed and their skin split. Mitch didn’t bother fighting back, he just wanted this over with.

Fast forward twenty minutes and Auston finally had his pants off, marginally amused with how Mitch was finally beginning to harden under his ministrations and how he vapidly tried to hide it. On the other hand, he was stroking himself to full hardness without fear of judgement, revelling in how watching it made Mitch squirm.

In truth, he was fighting against the bitter contempt breeding underneath his skin at being forced here, into Auston’s arms just to secure a spot on the team. He couldn’t deny the man was talented, well-prepared, and, well, attractive. Even when he tried to replace Auston with his premature self, Auston would just smack him back into the present and continue trying to arouse Mitch.

“You ready?” Auston asked. He opened up the drawer on his nightstand and pulled out a bottle of lube and a single condom packet. It was so achingly familiar; if he could replace the burnt out lamp with a hotel room’s obscure furniture options he could fool himself into believing it was Dylan.

Auston was generous with how much lube he applied, taking the liberty of warming it between his fingers and circling his hole liberally until Mitch was indifferent to the sensation. A steady hand made contact with the small of Mitch’s back, keeping his chest parallel to the bed and his ass elevated, ripe for the taking. Auston’s fingers were probing, the first one sinking in enough to get Mitch pressing his eyes shut at the initial stretch. Wiggling it in about two or three inches, Auston’s finger kept twitching, once or twice curling back towards his face. He was very distinct in his prodding, working it back and forth until Mitch spasmed and the hand on his back shot back.

It was entirely involuntary, but Auston was unrelenting with how he rubbed back and forth, adding another finger, to help accommodate Mitch and then some. Mitch’s hips lifted of their own accord to help streamline the process, the brunt of his focus kept to staying composed as Auston frequently tormented him, tightening the string inside of his belly as the tension continued to build.

“Look at you go, you can’t help yourself,” Auston commented with a happy rumble. The strain from holding himself up on his hands and knees was clearly taking its toll, if his scratchy voice was anything to go by.

“What, you going to call me a slut?” Mitch goaded, spreading his legs as far as he could go to give off the appearance of one of Auston’s call girls. It would’ve been more effective, if not for Auston’s gusty sigh of appreciation at the symbol of surrender.

“Nah,” Auston grinned. “It’s endearing. Just as I imagined. You little heartbreaker you.” Auston leaned back on his knees, smacking Mitch’s ass hard enough for it to sting. “Cute.”

Mitch turned his head back so that his forehead was balancing on the pillow hem, stinking of Auston’s cologne and shampoo. “Just fuck me already.”

“Yes, princess.” Auston nipped at some of the hair on the back of his neck. “Just making sure you’re good and slick.”

It was already wet enough down there, but Auston was still lavishing the back of his thighs and hole with lube, variating between the fingers he used until Mitch was squirming, unable to predict his movements and brace himself.

 

Mitch usually liked to look the other person in the eye, hadn’t tried the missionary position since his first time, but he assured himself that it was for the greater good. Relaxing, he let the pillows swamp his face, pressing into his nose and eyes until the downy stuffing brandished its mark on him. He preferred its emotionless hold to the heartfelt strokes Auston was using to get his adoration across.

He tried to keep his hands by his sides, but it didn’t feel right; he had to move them above his head in a surrendering position. By then, Auston had straddled him, bent knees squeezing inwards to give himself more poise as his other hand exited Mitch’s entrance and moved to the base of his dick.

“Condom,” Mitch grunted out, trying to inch away until he was sure Auston would follow through on his orders.

Auston patted his head with one hand. “Of course, wouldn’t want to forget with how much you’ve been around.”

Anger flashed through Mitch. “You’re fucking one to talk.”

“Relax, I’m kidding Mitch. One sec.” He could hear teeth ripping at the condom packet from above him, the excess plastic fluttering to the ground beside him. Mitch tried to steady himself with abyssal breathes, senile with the deep-seated panic infesting his chest.

A might disrespectful, but he made sure to watch as Auston pinched the tip of the condom and slipped it down to the base, reapplying lube for easy entry. He had no idea how many partners Auston had taken onto his little heartbreak spree--didn’t want to know--and protection for himself was at utmost priority.

Auston cautiously led himself in, head nosing at the entrance to later sinking down and dragging a moan from Mitch’s lips as he tried to relax his muscles to make the initial penetration easier. From where he was laying, his stomach burned with the bitter concoction of unease and anticipation, lighting a fire that had his walls clenching.

Chittering from above, Auston sounded more like he was trying to lure a horse out of a stable than relax him, but having a noise to latch onto made directing his attention elsewhere easier, and more productive in keeping Auston at heel. Mitch could pace the both of them out by making little hurt grunts, which would send Auston to a complete stop as his hand would ghost Mitch’s dick in an effort to have him go boneless against the combined efforts of the mattress and pillow stack supporting them.

Eventually, Auston did sink to the base, after a couple minutes of adjusting, thrusting, and dragging himself forward and back to get Mitch comfortable. The second he docked Mitch’s head shot up, flushed beyond belief and overwhelmed with the sensations plaguing him. One of Auston’s hands stroked him to the hilt, spreading the moisture and precum around to lubricate him.

“There you go Mitchy, look at you, taking it so well, just like how I knew you would. Can I speed up, go a bit deeper?” Mitch clamped his lips shut but shook his head up and down furiously, resetting the position of his legs to make room for Auston on the bed.

The variety between the thrusts made it trial and error trying to combat Auston and maintain the veil of having composure, but it was a losing battle. Just as he would wrestle control back Auston would sink deep or make a tiny circular thrust that rubbed against him and had his limbs splaying out like he was experiencing a seizure.

One of the hands dared to inch up from his mid-back to situate itself between his shoulder blades, fingers spread and clenching at Mitch’s skin until he was sure it would be a blotchy red. Biting into the pillow was no longer sufficient, he had to stretch his hands and grip the sliver of space between the headrest and mattress for dear life. He knew he was being too vocal, too provocative, but Auston kept slapping his ass, pulling his cheeks back and sending little shockwaves reverberating down his lower half, toes curling.

Another thrust, deep and filthy. Auston sounded much worse for wear, grabbing both of Mitch’s shoulders and yanking him back, effectively impaling him. Mitch’s body rocked with the blow, left to wheeze, face-down.

“Oh fuck, Mitchy. Fuck,” Auston moaned. His teeth snapped right beside Mitch’s ear, only successfully embedding themselves in the skin on the second try. They drew back enough to put a strain on the lobe, pain mixing with pleasure until Mitch’s network of sensory receptors exploded in sparks.

“Tell me how it feels Mitchy. Tell me or I’ll stop,” he said right square in Mitch’s ear. His thin hair was tickling Mitch’s cheek, sweat mingling as they moved as one unit.

“ _Fuck_ , it’s good,” he groaned.

There was a huge schism between the attitude he’d been wearing when he’d entered the condo and then. That was a relic of the time. Right now, he could only muster the strength to feel Auston’s cock passing through, leaving him deficient of any mental process except breathing.

Auston’s hands slammed down on either side of him, pushing forward as much as he could, digging deep.

“Yeah, it’s good. Always will be good for you Mitchy. Those other guys were just quick fucks; couldn’t give you what I can. Bend your back.” Mitch followed through on the orders, getting another deep thrust followed by smaller, rabbit-fast ones that had him stuttering out pleas.

He was going to implode in himself like a dying star. Auston wasn’t taking any prisoners. He set a rough pace and stuck to it, gritting out little huffs and moans that copied Mitch’s down to the pitch. With the added addition of Auston stroking Mitch to the same rhythm as he fucked him.

Practically feeling the drowsy after-sex glimmer on his brow, he made a greater effort to move his body in accordance with Auston’s, matching him thrust for thrust and sticking his ass out to let Auston really pound into him. He was balancing dangerously close to reaching the peak, the ephemeral high close enough to grab.

In a second he was there, right when Auston’s nails scraped down his back and leapt up to jerk his hair back. It took his head with him, leaving his neck bared. His brain shut off, energy passing through him like he had no body, just circuit boards channelling electricity. The intensity varied from three to five second long bursts, but it didn’t last as long as he wanted, flatlining and leaving him soaked and pathetically wretched. Every inch of his skin was red, or bitten, or clawed.

Auston didn’t reach his climax at the same time, having to continue the motions for a good thirty seconds before Mitch felt the heat erupt inside of him. It was mildly uncomfortable, but he was still submerged deep enough in la-la land to overlook the feeling of Auston pulling out and wiping off the worst of the cum bathing Mitch’s stomach in translucent little droplets.

Laughing to himself, Auston placed the dirtied fingers in front of Mitch’s face.

“I didn’t think you’d actually go through with it,” he proclaimed. Mitch felt obligated to kitten-lick the middle finger, and when he did, Auston snickered. “You’re starving for it. Can’t help yourself. I thought so.”

 

Lethargy after sex was very common for Mitch; he blamed his orgasms for leeching away most of his energy generated through sex and leaving him a mutant zombie after intercourse. Auston had shoddily wiped both of them both down once he'd recovered, not saying a word as he made himself comfortable on the other end of the bed. The invitation to stay was open, Mitch knew. The question Auston was asking was, _do you want to?_

Disgust broiled inside of him. He didn’t. He really didn’t. But in a way, he was compelled to entertain Auston until he passed out, and only then leave. That was easier said than done; Auston was on his phone browsing social media and was just as much participating in the stand-off as Mitch was. So much so that after thirty minutes had passed with little change, Mitch made the hard decision to abandon Auston in the bedroom and retrieve his clothes from where they’d been stripped in the living room. If Auston followed, he didn't hear but he hoped he hadn't.

He tiptoed around the frame, a chill absorbing into his bones as he manoeuvred around Auston’s articles of clothing and in the direction of the door. Fate wasn’t on his side, as he was just about to elude capture when Auston cleared his throat and lashed out, latching his hand onto Mitch’s arm to keep him from running out of the condo and risking whatever they’d accomplished there.

“Before you go,” he rolled over to face Mitch, grip unyielding, “think about coming back. Really think about it.”

Words alluded Mitch; he turned to face Auston for clarity, which was hard, given that there was no light source and his eyes still had adjusted to the pitch-black after the barrage of colour he'd seen after his dying orgasm.

Auston continued, “you want to be on my line, right? I can make it happen. Put in a good word for you and give you a little boost. We already work so well together, wherever we are.”

“I just want things to go back to normal,” Mitch admitted, the chill from the glistening sweat already getting to him.

Auston smiled. “Then stay. Let’s talk about old times. Me and you.” He made a grabby motion for Mitch’s hand, but Mitch beat him to the punch and snatched his away, glueing them to his sides.

“There was never a me and you.”

Wiping a hand across his forehead, Auston looked less than convinced at Mitch’s statement. “Well, there is now, right?” The hand that fell from his forehead became the stand he leaned on, looking like something out of a bad porno than a genuine attempt at seducing Mitch back into his bed.

“Auston, we just had sex. Once. To prove a point. That’s it.”

As if he’d been scalded, Auston pulled back abruptly. “Why can’t it be more than once?” He laughed humorlessly to himself. “Y-You don’t just sleep with someone for no reason. You _feel_ something for me.”

“Auston. It’s just sex.”

Auston’s look broke out in a glare, fixated on Mitch’s face without enough power to maim. “Fine, _go_. We’ll see what happens.”

The desire to run waning, Mitch’s hand stopped right above the handle, afraid to so much as make contact. “Is that a threat?”

In an instant, the threatening look melted away and revealed a much more troubling sneer, ageing Auston five years. “Of course not Mitchy. Have a good night.”

Mitch’s nose scrunched up, eyes alight with sore ferocity. “You’re such a fucking creep. I shouldn’t have come here.” He threw Auston’s hand off of him. “You’re selfish.”

“I’m selfish?” Auston bared his teeth, throwing the covers off of him and confronting Mitch before he could throw open the door. “That’s funny, I remember you being the one flaunting that perky little ass around, slutting it up around your teammates and seducing them to your place. You couldn’t even keep it in your pants long enough to practice--”

Mitch put both of his hands over his ears, trying to block out the accusations he knew deep down were true, as much as he didn't want to admit it. “Shut up!”

“--And I actually thought you would be _nice_ for once, but no, _I’m_ the selfish one. Because _I_ let you down and then made faces behind your back, and _I_ was so cruel as to flaunt the fact that I had every admirer in the OHL wanting to fuck my tight little ass while I stuck the middle finger to the only guy that actually cared about me. No, Mitch, you’re the selfish one. I did everything for you and you still turned me away. But you know what? I bet you'll still come back. You're such a whore, you'll do anything for cock, even if it’s mine!"

Mitch lost his restraint there. He backhanded Auston across the face, sending him back a few paces. Fire raced up his hand, sparking the veins and barreling him forward with the momentum of the blow.

Auston’s hand shakily raised up to cup his cheek, his fringes curtaining his pinprick eyes, unfitting in such a dark environment. They stared at each other, huffing, trying to work out what could be said, still sticky with fluids and red-faced.

He wanted Auston to scream and flounder, strike back and make it mutual. And for a second, it looked plausible, his face hardening into stone. Yet, just as quickly as it had appeared, Auston’s expression cushioned into something more muted, eyes dull.

“Mitchy,” he said, spacing the vowels out. “Come here.”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Let me,” he reached out, “I--You know I'd never hurt you.”

Mitch’s hand snaked out behind him, trying the handle and flipping it down to escape into the hallway. Without looking back he collected his fallen shirt and pants, slipping his boxers on and jumping outside, not caring that his jacket had been lost to Auston’s coffee table. It was ice-cold outside, snowing even, but even it couldn't compare to the sheer cold multiplying inside Auston’s apartment, fingers like shards of ice as they stuck to Mitch and burned him.

 

Still frothing at the mouth, Mitch did the one thing he was determined never to do in the face of his career: he let his personal life seep into his hockey. He purposely made bad passes at the next practice, scrounged to make it to the lowest common denominator to make everybody as miserable as he was. At that point, he was looking like a healthy scratch and Babs’ short temper was threatening to knock his skates out from under him.

He stuck himself to his own little personal world and refused all verbal recognition outside of authority figures, and that was coincidentally when Auston decided it'd be a good time to reunite with him, on the opposite side of the ice where Mitch supposed was his little time-out corner while he threw his temper tantrum.

“Hey,” he said plainly as he skated up to Mitch, nonchalant as ever.

“What do you want?” he half-yelled back, refusing to so much as look him in the face and give Auston the time of day.

“To talk, obviously. You're not helping anyone by doing this.” Auston motioned at where their teammates held back, ogling the proceedings like Mitch wasn't a few feet from them.

Every time he closed his eyes, Auston’s hands were on him. It didn't matter that at some points he wanted them to, others not so much. He was fighting with needle-thin practiced restraint to not feel sick while also misread the situation. Again.

When Mitch didn't say anything, Auston took it as permission to creep closer. Dangerously close, within range of touching him again, slamming him up against the boards and stripping him bare for all to see.

“Listen,” Auston started, voice low, “I wanted to apologize what was said on Tuesday. I was caught up in the moment and took advantage. But it's not worth this.” He shook his head. “I want us to be friends, and trying to get even with you was wrong.”

Mitch careened his head up, squinting at Auston through his clumpy eyelashes, stuck together with moisture. “Trying to get even?”

“You broke my heart, many times. I selfishly thought if I could just,” he made a squeezing motion with his glove, “have you I would be fine, but I was wrong. So let's get over this and be friends, okay? For the good of the team.”

And if there was one thing that couldn't be underestimated, it was Mitch’s love for Toronto.

So, against his better judgement, he nodded.

Auston broke out in a wide smile. “That's the spirit. We’re going to make history, you and I.”

“I hope so,” Mitch replied. He feebly poked at his eyes with his glove, trying to scoop out the exhaustion sunk deep into the skin. “But hear me loud and clear, it didn't mean anything.”

Auston twitched but did not move from his spot. “Okay.”

“I never felt anything, but I want you to know it wasn't personal, that,” he chuckled to himself, “you weren't missing anything. We can still be friends like we used to. Just--we gotta put this behind us. Find someone you love and work for it.”

Weren't missing anything being, _I'm nothing special, it's time to stop pining and get over yourself._

Auston’s arms opened up, expecting a hug. Mitch was taken back to two nights back, when he was kneeling before Auston and accepting his touches as if they'd scrape out the self-loathing weighing him down.

“If anything happens, it happens,” Auston said. “But I hope you know I'll never stop trying to get you.”

He closed in just as Mitch faltered, holding him so close and so tight that the metaphorical wings painted on Mitch’s back were pinned to him and couldn't unveil themselves. Any dread he'd wiped clean came back then, drowning then both underwater and then freezing over.

**Author's Note:**

> > mitch ends up toying with auston's feelings and leads him on a bit, although he tries to remedy this by lying about his sexuality  
> > he feels compelled to repair his relationship with auston by giving him sex  
> > intense power struggle during sex; dubious  
> > mitch backhands auston  
> > a lack of proper communication  
> > auston degrades mitch  
> > mitch has consensual underage sex with boys his own age in the OHL  
> > a character is walked in on and outed without their permission
> 
> come talk to me @cursivecherrypicking on tumblr!


End file.
